Free Fathermothergod: My Journey Out of Christian Science by Lucia Greenhouse

places at one of the long sides of the table, with Olivia next to Dad, me next to Mom. Sherman sits on the opposite side, facing us. We bow our heads and hold hands around the table to say grace. I squeeze my sister’s hand: welcome back.
    ’Tis by thy Truth, O Lord, we’re fed
    Thy Love our every need doth fill
.
    Give us this day our daily bread
,
    The grace to know and do Thy will. Amen
.
     
    My brother and I replace the word
doth
with
death
and peek up from bowed heads, smiling at our usual joke.
    Steak. Salad. Baked potatoes. Green beans. Sliced tomatoes with vinegar and sugar: our standard menu for Friday family dinner. We all drink milk.
    For dessert, Mom has baked a rhubarb crisp, served warm with vanilla ice cream.
    The meal is winding down, everyone spooning up the last mouthfuls of melting, sweet ice cream and tangy, soft fruit.
    “Your mother and I have something important to tell you,” Dad says.
    Our parents’ eyes meet, and they both smile. The last time they said this, Dad announced his decision to become a Christian Science practitioner. I exchange glances with my sister and brother.
    “What?” we all ask in unison.
    “We-ell,” our father says in a jovial, teasing way, enjoying the moment of suspense, “you’ve all learned the metric system at school, right? You may want to brush up on it.”
    Family trip abroad this summer? Might be fun. But I’d rather go back to camp.
    “You remember when your mother and I flew to London in April?”
    I sense something ominous. I set down my spoon and look again at Sherman and Olivia.
    “Well, while we were there, we visited two terrific schools. There’s a Christian Science boarding school for girls called Claremont. There’s also a Christian Science boarding school for boys nearby called Fan Court.”
    Olivia, Sherman, and I sit there, dumbstruck.
    Eventually, my sister speaks. “What are you
saying
?” she asks in an uncharacteristically low voice.
    “We’re moving to London!” my father says.
    Dead silence. Utter disbelief on Olivia’s face. Absolutely nothing on Sherman’s. Our parents smile at each other.
    Some intangible, shatterproof thing has shattered.
    My father starts talking again, but only shards of his run-on sentences register with me. “… an opportunity for all of us …,” he says.
    “What about our friends?” I ask.
    “Mom can pursue Christian Science nursing …,” he adds.
    “What about Grandma? And Ammie and Grandpa?” Olivia asks.
    “… at a place called Hawthorne House, and I can take my practice
anywhere
,” he says.
    “What about our friends?” I press, more urgently.
    “You’ll make new friends,” he finally answers, casually. “We’ll get to travel …”
    “What about our house?” Olivia asks. I feel frantic.
    “We’ll sell the house.… We’ve found a nice duplex in Hampstead … rightnear the Heath … you’ll love your new schools … right outside London.”
    What?
What
?
    “
I
don’t want to go to boarding school!” I yell.
    “Can’t I stay at Principia?” Olivia pleads.
    “Is there hockey?” Sherman asks. “What about hockey?”
    “No, there’s no hockey, kiddo,” my father says gently. Seeing my brother’s eyes overflow with tears, he adds, “But they have soccer. And they don’t have football, but they have something like it called rugby.”
    “I don’t play soccer,” Sherman says. “Or rugby.” He looks dazed.
    “What about eighth grade? What about Chipsie? And Moptoe? And the cats?” I ask.
    “It will be wonderful,” my dad says, plowing over my questions. “You’ll love London. It’s a real European city. And there’s no language barrier—”
    “I’m not
going
to boarding school,” I announce.
    “Why can’t I stay at Prin——?” Olivia asks again.
    “But … hockey,” my brother murmurs.
    My mother leaves the table and reappears moments later with two brochures in her hand and a stack of photographs. “This,” she says, handing